


don't close your eyes

by darlingargents



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Possessive Behavior, Serial Killers, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/pseuds/darlingargents
Summary: Richie Tozier, aspiring stand-up comedian, meets Patrick Hockstetter at a bar.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	don't close your eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liesmyth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/gifts).



He’d been in Chicago for two years, working construction during the day and standup in bars at night, when he met Patrick for the first time. He was at one of Richie’s shows — one of the better ones, where every joke seemed to land, where he felt like his world had narrowed to the microphone in front of him and the sea of eyes watching him. The impressions went perfectly, his voice (still somehow settling, at the age of twenty-one) never cracking. After, in the grimy, dimly-lit bathroom, he looked in the mirror and was distantly surprised to see that, despite the heat of the lights and crowded humanity, he hadn’t sweated through the armpits of his Pearl Jam shirt.

It was one of those nights that reminded him why he kept doing this, even though his knees felt fucked to hell from lifting heavy shit and he hadn’t gotten eight hours of sleep for months. He was, somehow, good.

He was _good_ , and he supposed, later, that maybe that was why Patrick noticed him in the first place. He was at the bar after, halfway through his second free glass of beer, when a tall, dark-haired man slid into the seat next to him. Richie knew lots of guys who are taller than him, but there was something… different about this man, in that moment. His height was intimidating, in a way that Richie wasn’t used to. It might have been the way that he kept leaning into Richie’s space, as he ordered his drink and his arm bumped against Richie’s.

His skin was cold, like he’s been leaning against a freezer. (He was probably just outside having a smoke, Richie told himself. Not weird.)

He took the first sip of his beer, and looked over the rim of his glass at Richie. His eyes roamed up and down Richie’s body, so blatantly checking him out that Richie wanted to shrink away, but there was something magnetic about him.

He didn’t say a word, but Richie realized exactly what he was thinking in maybe thirty seconds. It sent a thrill of excitement through him and, incredibly, he considered actually going along with it. It was stupid, risky, but—

He was terrified and painfully hard in his jeans and he wanted, for the first time, to take the risk.

He was twenty-one. Thinking with his dick is what he was supposed to be doing, right? It made sense, at the time, even though it felt unbelievably stupid in retrospect.

The man downed half his glass and put it down, his hand inches from Richie’s. Richie was pretty sure that his hands would be shaking if they weren’t flat on the bar top.

Richie took another sip of his own beer. When he put the glass down, his fingers were closer to the man's, and he wasn’t sure, even then, if it was intentional or not.

"Patrick," the man had said, without looking, and Richie had instantly felt a jolt of — _something_ , just hearing the name. Familiarity, fear, and something else that he couldn't identify.

In memory, the sequence was somewhat blurry. They finished their drinks. Patrick paid for himself, Richie thanked the bartender for having him. They didn’t look at each other, and thirty seconds after Patrick left for the bathroom, Richie followed him.

A minute later, Richie was on his knees, Patrick’s dick in his mouth. There was nothing about this, objectively, that should have been pleasant — his airway was half-blocked, his knees were already hurting on the tile floor — but somehow, the unpleasant real details had melted away in seconds; all there was was the dick in his mouth and the very real pain of his constricted boner in his jeans.

He wasn't good at blowjobs, that much was certain from the get-go. He had no clue what he was doing — it was all new, unfamiliar, and exhilarating. Patrick’s hand was buried in his hair (a too-tight grip, pulling almost to the point of pain) and guiding him back and forth; all Richie could do was try to keep his teeth out of the way and add a bit of tongue when it seemed appropriate. The head of Patrick’s dick brushed the back of his throat and he managed, somehow, to keep his gag reflex under control; he felt Patrick shake a little, like a little laugh.

And then he went deeper, further in Richie’s throat, and he did gag, a little; it was too fast, too deep. Richie opened his eyes — he hadn’t realized he’d closed them — and looked up to see Patrick looking down at him, a smile on his face that made his stomach go cold. He had a thought, sudden and intrusive, that he was, perhaps, not in a very good position here — that the risk he’d taken was much, much bigger than he had thought.

Patrick leaned back more against the bathroom door, and lifted one foot to rest on Richie’s dick through his jeans. He couldn’t help it; he groaned around Patrick’s dick and his hips jerked forward a little, providing the tiniest bit of relief. He’d barely been touched and he already felt close.

“Good boy,” Patrick said, and Richie didn’t like that, he never did, but there was something — something in his voice—

Richie’s vision almost whited out for a moment as he came harder than he ever had in his life. A moment later, Patrick did too, without warning, and his come flooded down Richie’s throat, some of it onto his tongue as Patrick pulled out of his mouth. He let go of Richie’s hair and Richie realized, coming down from the high, that his head was stinging all over where Patrick had been pulling.

“Good job, Tozier. Call me.” He grabbed Richie’s hand and wrote something on the back, and left Richie kneeling on the bathroom floor. He checked his hand; it was a phone number. He added it to his phone, and slowly stood, wincing at the drying come sticking to the inside of his underwear.

He went home, jerked off in the shower and came almost painfully quickly. He didn’t stop thinking about Patrick until he fell asleep, and when he did, he was haunted by nightmares that he couldn’t remember when he woke up. The feeling of gut-deep terror stuck with him for all of the next day.

Still, eventually, he dialled the number, the next Friday night, a little tipsy and a lot horny.

“Finally, Tozier,” Patrick said, and Richie didn’t wonder, at the time, how he knew who was calling. “What’s your address?”

Richie told him, and he hung up. Fifteen minutes later, his buzzer went off, and he let Patrick up. All of his alarm bells were going off, he knew, but somehow, it didn’t bother him. He told himself it was because he’d never had sex before (not that he would be telling Patrick that) and that he still wasn’t comfortable experimenting with his sexuality.

Patrick kissed him as soon as the door shut. He pushed Richie down onto the couch and kept kissing him, hard and almost violent, one hand on Richie’s shoulder and the other on the back of his neck. One hand moved up to Richie’s hair and pulled his head down, and Patrick’s teeth sunk into his neck, hard enough to hurt.

Richie had never been into that before, but he heard himself gasp and felt his hips jerk forward, so. He supposed that he was. It was like Patrick was reading his subconscious and finding all the bits of him that he was too ashamed to even think about.

Patrick kept going at his neck until there was certainly a very large and visible hickey, and then moved away. “Where’s the bedroom?” he said, and Richie saw that his cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen. As he watched, Patrick’s licked his lips, slow and lascivious, and Richie’s heart started to pound in something more like fright.

“This way,” he said, and stood up, leading the way. He’d halfheartedly cleaned up before calling, but Patrick didn’t look at anything but Richie.

“Take off your clothes,” he said, and Richie did it, all too aware of Patrick’s eyes on him. When he was naked and visibly hard, Patrick pulled off his shirt, revealing lean muscle and the lines of his bones. He stepped forward and pushed on Richie’s chest until he fell onto the bed.

He pulled a small bottle out of his back pocket and Richie felt, for the first time, a serious flicker of unease. “Uh—” he said, and Patrick just looked at him.

“Problem?” he said.

Richie swallowed. “No. I just, I haven’t—”

“Don’t care.” Patrick squirted the lube onto his fingers and, without ceremony, pushed them into Richie.

Richie had done the same thing to himself before, once or twice, but definitely not so much and so fast. He felt himself tense up and Patrick laid his other hand on Richie’s stomach as he pushed in, further and harder. It _hurt_ , a lot, and Richie kept his breathing shallow, tried to relax. This was happening. If he wanted it to be a painless process, that was on him. And it did start to feel better as he relaxed, getting to the point where it almost felt good.

Patrick prepped him for maybe a minute, and then pulled his fingers out, yanking off the rest of his clothes and slicking up his dick. It was longer than Richie’s, thin and curving up towards his chest; the light was better here than in the bar bathroom, and Richie couldn’t quite believe he’d had all of that in his mouth.

Richie realized, as Patrick began to line himself up, that he wasn’t wearing a condom, and felt himself start to tense in panic. “Uh—” he tried, and Patrick paused, raising a brow at him.

“What? Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

“Uh, could you wear—”

“No. Anything else?”

Patrick’s eyes were cold and entirely decided. Richie swallowed.

“No.”

“Got it.” Patrick pushed in, and Richie forced himself to breathe through it, through the pain, the feelings of intrusion and violation. His mind kept flashing to the possibility of AIDS, of dying, of his family finding out what he’d been—

“Cheer up, Tozier,” Patrick said, but he was grinning. Richie had the thought that his discomfort was making this better for Patrick, and then pushed it down. “At least pretend you’re enjoying this.”

Richie closed his eyes and breathed, and it did start to feel better, as Patrick’s thrusts sped up. He’d gotten soft while Patrick was prepping him, but he was getting hard again, and it was starting to feel _really_ good. Patrick’s angle changed just a bit and Richie groaned, a bitten-down sound.

“Good boy,” Patrick said, and Richie still hated that, but he felt his body respond anyway, pushing against Patrick’s thrusts. Patrick grabbed his dick and started jerking him off, almost half-heartedly, and a moment later, he groaned and stopped moving.

Richie opened his eyes, and the expression on Patrick’s face was enough to tilt him over the edge.

He fell back against the bed, utterly exhausted, and winced as Patrick pulled out. A moment later, he opened his eyes and Patrick was gone.

* * *

It wasn’t the last time.

Patrick would show up on Richie’s doorstep, every couple of weeks, and they’d have sex that was somewhere in the thin line between degrading and wonderful. Richie hated himself for going along with it, but he did, every time.

At the very least, he was starting to feel a little bit better about being… well, a man who wanted sex with other men. He went to a couple of gay bars, chickened out the first few times he got flirted with, and finally worked up the nerve to go home with someone a few tries in. He went to the guy’s house, and didn’t get murdered, which part of him had been convinced was an inevitability.

It was more satisfying than any of his sessions with Patrick, if only because the guy offered him snacks and chatted with him about music for a little while after. His name was Dave, and he gave Richie his phone number at the end.

He hooked up with Dave twice more, and on the fourth attempt, Dave didn’t pick up. It was strange — he knew Dave’s schedule from their conversations, and he was pretty much always free on Thursday nights. Richie shrugged and went about his night, calling again a bit later just to see. No response.

He didn’t think much about it until the next night, when he went to his usual bar to do a standup gig and, right in the middle of the bulletin board, there was a MISSING sign with Dave’s face on it.

Richie stopped in the entranceway, and someone behind him walked into him. “Asshole,” the guy muttered as he pushed past Richie, but Richie barely heard it; he was staring at the poster. Dave was grinning, his beard was a little longer and less contained, and he looked happy.

_MISSING._

The first half of Richie’s set went terribly, mostly because he couldn’t stop thinking about Dave. He recovered somewhat halfway through — there was something about being on stage that made the rest of the world fall away — but after, sitting at the bar, he felt a horrible creeping sense of doom as he drank his third free beer. He’d brought his car, but he would be taking a taxi home, that was for damn sure.

He didn’t notice Patrick sitting beside him until someone grabbed his almost-empty beer as he set it down.

“Oh, hi,” he said dumbly, and Patrick just looked at him, eyes cold and almost angry. _Like a shark_ , he thought, and had no idea where it came from.

Patrick downed the rest of Richie's beer, and then stood and walked for the bathrooms. Richie didn’t think. He just followed.

It was just like the first time — Richie on his knees, choking on Patrick’s dick — but angrier. Patrick’s hand in his hair was even more demanding, yanking him back and forward, and he went deeper and deeper down Richie’s throat until tears started to run from his eyes. Richie was drunk enough that he let it happen without punching Patrick in the balls or biting down on his dick — he told himself, later, that he would’ve done that, but he was probably lying to himself. Patrick came violently down his throat without warning, and tucked himself back into his jeans, looking down disdainfully.

“You’re mine,” he said, and walked out, leaving Richie with a boner and confusion.

* * *

They found Dave’s body the next day. Richie actually watched the local news for maybe the first time in his life, and there it was.

“The body of local construction worker Dave Robinson, who was reported missing last night, has been found in an alleyway. Police suspect foul play, but have assured the public that there is no danger.”

Richie watched for a moment longer, and turned it off.

* * *

The thing was, it was horrible and tragic, but there was no reason to think anything of it. Except, it kept happening.

The next three guys that Richie hooked up with were all nice, polite, willing to chat, willing to reciprocate, and they hooked up more than once.

And, one by one, they all disappeared, and were found dead.

There had been rumours of a local serial killer in Chicago for years, targeting gay men, and it had never made news until now. It was revealed publicly, after Richie’s third hookup was found dead, that all of them had frequented the gay bar where Richie had met them. The commentators on the news joked about the psycho gay killer of Chicago and laughed as pictures of the missing posters showed in the background.

Richie threw up after that news announcement and cancelled his booking that night, claiming food poisoning and promising to make it up the next night.

The police showed up to talk to him after hookup #4, which Richie had decided was the last one. He was surprised it had taken that long; he’d been seen with every single one of them in the days leading up to their deaths, and enough people knew him at the bar to identify him. He had rock-solid alibis for all of the deaths but one, and the police let him go.

Somehow, despite all of this, he didn’t connect it to Patrick until it was too late. Even though Patrick would show up and fuck him after every single death, and not pay attention to him otherwise. Despite the fact that Patrick had entirely dispensed of the pretence of reciprocity in their hookups. Despite how violent it got, how possessive.

No, Richie didn’t connect the dots, until he was at Patrick’s apartment, a week or two after hookup #4 was found, his head half-disconnected from his body, sticking out of a sewer. He was looking for something to eat, opened Patrick’s fridge, and there it was.

Dave had been from a Catholic family. One of the things Richie remembered most about him was his crucifix, hanging around his neck, swinging down to touch Richie’s chest when Dave leaned down to kiss him from on top.

In the fridge, discarded on one of the shelves, was Dave’s crucifix.

Richie couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His world narrowed to the crucifix, the chain of gold hanging half off the shelf, right next to a six-pack of beer and a block of cheese. A casual token of murder in Patrick’s fridge.

“Get me a beer, will you?” Patrick called from the living room, and Richie almost jumped, as if he heard a ghost. He took a beer from the six-pack and closed the fridge, maybe a bit too hard.

“I have to go,” he said as he handed the beer to Patrick. “Sorry, I just remembered, I have to work on this new standup routine and I’m really behind—”

“Stay a while,” Patrick said, his dead eyes fixed on Richie’s face. “You’ll have time later.”

“I really should go, there’s a lot to do—”

“Sit down.”

Richie sat. Patrick wrapped an arm around him, and pulled him close.

“Isn’t that better?” he said, softly, into Richie’s ear, and he resisted the urge to throw up.

There was a movie playing that Patrick insisted they watch, something with guns and explosions, and Richie didn’t absorb a single second of it. The moment the credits started to roll, he made his excuses, and Patrick let him go.

Behind the wheel of his car, Richie finally let himself cry.

* * *

He called in an anonymous tip. He was sure he was putting his life into his hands by doing this, but a part of him didn’t care — the idea of anyone else dying because of him was too horrifying.

News of Patrick’s arrest came the next day on the morning news. “In breaking news today, Chicago’s Gay Killer apprehended,” the perky blonde newslady said. “Patrick Hockstetter, a Maine native, was charged with nine murders due to evidence found in his apartment. Hockstetter came to the attention of authorities due to an anonymous tip—”

Richie shut it off.

It was over, but it didn’t feel over. A part of him was certain he’d see Patrick again.

* * *

He stopped going to gay bars, completely. His career started to get legs, and he decided he was done. His career would come first, and he wouldn’t fuck it up by being publicly gay. (And if it meant that he never had to worry about getting someone killed with his dick, all the better.)

Eventually, he forgot completely. But the fear never left, and, he supposed later, that was the important part.

* * *

The third or fourth thing he remembered, on the plane back to Derry, was Patrick.

He was half-asleep and just about to drift off to sleep when a bolt of fear hit him, hard, and he jerked upright, gasping. He almost knocked over his neighbour’s plastic cup of water, and muttered an apology as they glared at him and moved their things over.

Memories were slotting into place. That summer, the Losers, the — the whatever-it-was that brought them together, and the taller, older boy with the homemade flamethrower, who never stopped looking at Richie like he wanted to eat him alive.

Patrick Hockstetter. Derry, Maine native. He’d found Richie again, and Richie hadn’t remembered a thing, hadn’t understood why he was afraid, and walked straight into his trap.

Richie’s heart was pounding so hard he was feeling lightheaded. He fumbled out of his seatbelt and locked himself in the plane bathroom, sitting on the toilet with his head in his hands, trying to get his breathing under control.

Everything was coming back. The crime scene photos on the news, the dead look in Patrick’s eyes when he held Richie’s hair and did what he wanted, the crucifix in the fridge that finally broke Richie out of his trance. Richie fumbled for his phone; he’d bought wifi already, and he suddenly, desperately needed to know.

He googled Patrick Hockstetter. The top result was a news article. PATRICK HOCKSTETTER, CHICAGO’S “GAY KILLER”, IS THE WORST SERIAL KILLER YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF.

Below that: PATRICK HOCKSTETTER, CHICAGO’S GAY KILLER, RELEASED ON PAROLE. Two weeks earlier.

Richie closed his eyes and tried to breathe so that he wouldn’t pass out.

* * *

At the Kissing Bridge, Richie pulled over, drawn by some unknown force, and parked. He got out of the car and looked down to the water below.

He remembered Henry and his gang — Patrick included — carving letters into the fat kid’s stomach. (Beck? Brad? He supposed he’d find out soon.) He placed a hand on the wood; it was worn down from years of rain, bits of it rotting away. He glanced lower, saw the R+E, and moved back as the memories hit him all at once.

The memories were so overwhelming that he doesn’t see the shadow beside him on the ground until, backing up, he hit something human-sized.

A click and a hiss sounded, and Richie turned around, slowly.

It was Patrick. His head was shaved, and there were tattoos winding up his arms, more than last time Richie saw him. Richie’s mouth went dry and he stumbled back until he hit the wall of the bridge. Patrick’s hands lifted, and Richie saw that he was holding a can of hairspray and a lighter.

Click and hiss. A burst of flame crackled inches from from Richie’s face, and he bit down a scream. “What the fuck—” he managed, and Patrick lunged.

Richie rolled to the side and fell, his hip hitting the ground harder than it should’ve at his age. Patrick turned to him, almost mechanical, and Richie didn’t understand what the fuck was going on, but he had to run. He managed to get around Patrick and into his car, and Patrick slammed both his hands against Richie’s window as he fumbled for the rental keys in his jacket pocket.

He kept slamming on the window, even as Richie started the car, over and over. Richie looked up, and he was smiling, his eyes distant and cruel, as he slammed his hands over and over. There were tattoos of open eyes on his palms.

The car started, and Richie hit the gas a little too hard, almost crashing into the bridge before correcting and getting onto the road. He glanced into the rearview mirror as he drove away. Patrick was still there, one hand up and waving, a freakish grin on his face.

* * *

Richie didn’t remember fully until that night, and when it hit him, he barely made it out of the restaurant before he threw up. Some of it was fuzzy, buried, but he remembered Patrick. Desperate and afraid, going to Patrick after that summer because he didn’t know anyone else who was like him. The “relationship”, degrading and awful but something that he kept coming back to, for years until Patrick’s family moved away in his sophomore year.

Patrick was his first, twice, and he’d forgotten both of them until now.

The other Losers followed him outside, an argument commenced, and they made their way back to the Derry Town House, where Richie poured himself a drink and handed one to Bev as soon as she came in with a commiserating nod.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Patrick. He wasn’t sure if he’d met Patrick or Pennywise, but either way, he wasn’t sure he’d survive this.

He drank, and hoped.

* * *

“Hockstetter is in my shower,” Eddie said, dazed, his nose pouring blood down the front of his shirt. Richie looked up, and there he was, brass knuckles and Eddie’s blood on his hand, unmistakably alive.

Richie didn’t even remember choosing to move, but a moment later he was at the top of the stairs, stepping around where Eddie was slumped against the wall, and tackling Patrick to the ground. He laughed like a hyena as Richie’s hands closed around his neck. He was seeing red; he couldn’t stop thinking about Dave and the others, who died because of him, and all the others that Patrick killed.

Strong hands on his back pulled him away, and Richie was distantly aware of himself screaming, trying to get Patrick. Patrick was still laughing, bruises blossoming on his neck in the shape of Richie’s hands.

“Richie!” Ben shouted, and Richie was sure it wasn’t the first time he’d said Richie’s name. “Stop it, man, Bev’s calling the police. Don’t get arrested.”

Richie went still, and Ben reluctantly stepped away. Richie took a step forward and kicked Patrick in the ribs.

“I’m done,” he said when Ben went to grab him again, and stepped away. “Really.”

* * *

Patrick was several states away from where he was allowed to be, which meant that the Derry police had a reason to put him away. Richie didn’t look away until he’d been loaded into the police car in handcuffs.

He didn’t trust Pennywise to let him stay in prison.

* * *

The next day, when the Neibolt house collapsed and the Losers became five, there was a quiet police report that Patrick Hockstetter died in jail. An aneurysm. Sudden and instantly deadly, impossible to predict or prevent.

Richie read the report over and over, and found himself crying. He didn’t even understand why. Maybe because his relationship with Patrick had been, somehow, the longest relationship he’d ever been in. Maybe because Patrick had taken his virginity twice, and somehow, the idea of a world without him seemed wrong.

Richie was glad he was dead. But it hurt to remember, anyway.


End file.
